


The Stars Are Not Wanted Now: Put Out Every One

by Charli



Category: Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-03
Updated: 2011-11-23
Packaged: 2017-10-26 11:24:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/282480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charli/pseuds/Charli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The world explodes in slow mo. Metal crumples and creases. Each tortured squeal, each fractured piece. The windscreen shatters for what seems like eternity. Showering tiny glass rain drops from its twisted frame. There is grey and there is black. There is red and there is yellow.</i></p><p><i>Every detail of every second is recorded onto his memory. Etched into grey matter and carved onto his heart.</i></p><p><i>Richard Hammond calls it “The End.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WH Auden provides the verse and lettuce for the bunny.

_~He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong._

 _The movies call it “Bullet Time”: that slow motion, three-dimensional tracking where the path of every single object can be traced._

 _The movies call it “Technicolor”: that sharp clarity of rainbow hues making a single moment in time jump off the screen in all its brilliance._

 _The movies call it “Pro-Logic”: digital detail that highlights the nuance of every individual sound._

 _Roll VT._

 _The world explodes in slow mo. Metal crumples and creases. Each tortured squeal, each fractured piece. The windscreen shatters for what seems like eternity. Showering tiny glass rain drops from its twisted frame. There is grey and there is black. There is red and there is yellow._

 _Every detail of every second is recorded onto his memory. Etched into grey matter and carved onto his heart._

 _Richard Hammond calls it “The End.”_

*

Richard has become what Jeremy refers to as a “Sunday driver”.

“…one of those middle-aged men bimbling about on country roads on a Sunday in a car that won’t go any faster than forty-five miles an hour.”

“I am not middle-aged!”

“That’s what all middle-aged men with white teeth say.”

Richard doesn’t really care though, because James doesn’t care. James is quite happy to sit in the passenger seat of the aged Opel Kadett, talking about nothing in particular just pootling around the countryside going nowhere. Richard is happy that his two favourite people in the world get along so well.

People?

Oliver isn’t really people. He knows this but he can’t help it. He has a deep emotional attachment to the little car, much like his deep emotional attachment to James. The two of them are somewhat alike. Quiet, slightly stuffy and yet always fun to be around. Although Oliver doesn’t wear shirts with flowers on, or play the piano or give him blow jobs in the shower. Not that much alike at all then really.

*

Richard likes the winter. He likes the short dark days and the long drawn out nights. It’s five o’clock in the afternoon and its pitch black. Oliver’s headlights are shining brightly along the narrow Cotswold lanes.

James is next to him muttering about getting to the pub and getting a round in. He can only go so long in Oliver’s cold cramped interior without a glass of the dark brown _[sic]_ to warm him up.

James huddles deeper into his jacket as they slowly round a tight corner, “You know I think it might be warmer out there than in here.”

Richard touches the heater control “Oliver’s doing the best he can; you should have worn a thicker jumper.”

Richard glances back at the road, a set of tiny headlights are staring back at him.

*

 _There are moments in your life that come down to a single split second decision. Life or death. Just like that. Problem is, you don’t actually know when you’re making that decision. It’s only afterwards, when you’re allowed time to reflect, that you realise you were being asked to alter the path of your life._

 _And chances are, if you do get to look back, you’re going to know you made the wrong decision._

*

“Fox!” shouts James.

And, despite knowing better, Richard swerves.

*

Foxes show up in the dark, as long as they’re facing your headlights their eyes will shine right back at you. Plenty of warning then to brace yourself for impact.

Pity then that black ice doesn’t. That it is in fact black. And won’t show up until your front wheel hits it at a bad angle and sends you off the road at fifty miles an hour.

“You live in the countryside, you run over small and furrys with your car, fact of life Hamster.” Jeremy often reminded him.

Problem is Oliver is quite delicate and a large fox could do quite a bit of damage. It has nothing and everything to do with sentimentality.

*

The tree has stood at the side of the road for a hundred years, and will probably stand for a hundred more.

Oliver will not have so much luck.

Richard lifts his head slowing from the steering wheel and wonders for a brief second why there is no airbag. He is covered in tiny crystals of glass and through the empty frame he can see Oliver’s crumpled bonnet rising up to greet him. ‘That can’t be good’ he thinks. There is steam and there is cold. He turns to look at James. James is white as a sheet and there is blood trickling down the side of his face from a small cut above his left eyebrow.

“Cock.” Says James in typical fashion, and then “Are you alright? Can you move?”

Richard wriggles a little, “Yeah I can move. You’re bleeding.”

James outs his hand up to his head, “Just a graze, from the flying glass.”

James thumps his body hard against the passenger door to open it and falls out into a nettle patch.

Richard just sits there. Motionless. Trying to come to terms with the fact that he has just ploughed his beloved Oliver into a tree.

And just like that, he can see it all again in his head. Every recorded detail. The fox, the swerve, the impact and the destruction.

Suddenly James is at his side pulling the door open and he doesn’t want to get out. If he gets out, then he will have to see in full the damage that he has done. And James is talking at him, making it worse.

“It was a fucking fox. Why did you swerve for a fox you arse?”

Richard bites his lower lip, “Shut up.”

“Come on get out of the car, we need to see about getting out of here. Tow truck is going to be no use, it’s going to have to go on a flatbed. What’s left of it at any rate.”

Richard speaks again, this time slower and his voice is strangled “I said, shut the fuck up.”

And this time the dawning realisation belongs solely to James. “Oh God, Hammond, I didn’t think.” And he puts a hand on Richard’s shoulder.

And that’s when the tears come.

His body crumples into what’s left of the dashboard and he stays there, sobbing silently until flashing amber lights signify that rescue has arrived.

James pulls him gently from the vehicle and into a rough hug. He steers Richard away from the wreck of the car and Richard hides his face in the soft wool of James’s jumper.

James wants to tell him they can rebuild. He wants to stop the tears with a kiss, to mend the broken heart with all the love he has. But he can’t do any of those things. Because nothing can change this one ineffable fact…

…Oliver is dead.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The world explodes in slow mo. Metal crumples and creases. Each tortured squeal, each fractured piece. The windscreen shatters for what seems like eternity. Showering tiny glass rain drops from its twisted frame. There is grey and there is black. There is red and there is yellow._
> 
>  _Every detail of every second is recorded onto his memory. Etched into grey matter and carved onto his heart._
> 
>  _Richard Hammond calls it “The End.”_
> 
> And nothing can change this one ineffable fact…
> 
> …Oliver is dead.

_~The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood. For nothing now can ever come to any good._

The blue and amber strobe-lights that flood the quiet country lane tell Richard that all his joy and happiness and everything he loves about driving has come crashing to an end. His face is still pressed hard into James’s chest. He can smell smoke and petrol, and the tiny shards of glass that are buried in the wool are pricking his face.

He moans softly as he hears metal tearing and shearing as the recovery truck pulls Oliver off the tree and back out onto the road.

James is talking to someone; he’s being very business-like, very James-like. Richard can’t hear the actual words. He doesn’t care. What is there that can be said? Whoops. Oopsadaisy. Cock. Fuck.

You can’t apologize to a car. It isn’t something that has emotions and feelings. It has spark plugs and a fan belt. It has life-worn seats and a coughy little horn. It has a name. And that name is Oliver.

He has no idea how much time has passed when James finally pushes him into the back of a taxi. He curls up against the window, as far away from James as he can. Its not that he doesn’t want James to touch him, it’s just that somewhere, in the deep recesses of his mind, he’s started to blame James for the accident.

It was James that shouted. James who spotted the mirror-shine eyes of the fox. And even though he knows it’s irrational; that James didn’t tell him to swerve, that James didn’t create that particular patch of black ice, it helps to blame someone else for his misery.

Richard presses his face up against the cold glass and stares past his own miserable reflection out into the night. Dark country roads eventually spread out and after a time they are on the motorway. He stares at the bright red passing tail lights and he knows James is taking him home. And for once he’s not sure that he wants to go.

*

Once they’re inside the warmth of his house James says “I need a drink.”

“I’m going to bed.” Says Richard, and he does. And he walks away leaving James looking slightly bewildered and still sporting that cut above his left eye.

In the bedroom he tugs off his clothes and as he goes to take off his watch, he notices the face is broken.

Time of death: five seventeen pm.

And he feels nauseous.

He climbs into the kingsize bed and loses himself beneath the covers. He tosses and turns and eventually rolls onto his side, hugging the duvet up under his chin. Fusker wanders into the room and hops lightly up onto the bed. He balances himself on Richard’s hip and settles there, purring softly.

Would he feel the same, he wonders, if he had been swerving to avoid James’s cat? How would James feel if Fusker had been crushed beneath the wheels of a car?

It’s all too much tragedy for one night and it’s gone two in the morning when James finally comes to bed. He reaches over and puts an arm around Richard, who shrugs him away and fakes a snore. James takes the hint and turns the light out without a word.

And Richard eventually lets the dream sleep carry him away.

 _5:17_

 _The aged front metal bumper connects with the aged bark of the tree._

 _He sees it crumple and push back. The tree stands tall and firm. An immovable object. The bonnet lifts and creases as the engine is pushed backwards into the body of the car._

 _Cracks appear across the windscreen like creeping fingers of ice, and as it shatters the tiny shards of glass scatter like April showers._

 _5:17_

 _He doesn’t see his life flash before his eyes. He doesn’t see missed opportunities or a thousand joyful moments. He sees James, pale and bleeding, and his heart splinters._

 _And then he sees Oliver’s pale yellow body work coming in at him through the shattered glass. Steam rising from the destroyed hood. Steering wheel pressing hard against his chest._

 _And he sees Oliver’s life flash before his eyes. He sees Africa and snatched opportunities in the back seat with James and a thousand joyful moments of driving the small Opel._

 _And his splintered heart explodes like a barrel of gunpowder._

5:17

The time of death is standing out in green digital brilliance from the clock beside the bed. James is on his back, mouth open, breathing deeply. The cat is no where to be seen and Richard is alone in the dark with just the time for company.

Why is it so important, he wonders? Five seventeen. He can’t get it out of his head. It’s like he’s seen it somewhere before.

He stares at the clock until the numbers are burned onto his retinas. And just as he is beginning to think that time has stopped, the numbers change. And just like that, its 5:18 and life is moving on.

Richard climbs out of bed and fumbles around for some sweatpants and a t-shirt. As quietly as he can so as not to disturb his sleeping partner.

He pads softly across the landing and into the study and flicks on the light and closes the door. He powers up the computer and waits impatiently for everything to finish loading before opening up Google and typing “5:17” into its search engine.

It takes him a few tries to find it, and when he does he wishes he hadn’t.

Someone, probably James, once told him that life was never so bad that it couldn’t get any worse. That just when you think your heart is done being broken into a million fragments, someone will come along and stomp on them as well, just to drive the point home.

Oliver’s life pronounced extinct at 5:17.

The information on the screen is simple and harsh and it accuses and convicts him in a way that no judge or jury ever could.

 **Deuteronomy 5:17: ‘Thou shalt not kill’**

He turns from the computer and vomits copiously into the waste paper basket.

*

It’s three weeks before Richard mentions Oliver, and even then he won’t call it by name.

He and James are eating breakfast and James has his face buried in the newspaper muttering comments to no one in particular. Richard calls it “political Tourettes”, Jeremy suffers from it quite badly.

“James?”

“Hmm.”

“What happened to the car?”

James puts the paper down and regards him cautiously. For a moment he is tempted to say “You wrapped it around a tree to avoid vermin.”, but this is the man he loves and he can’t bear to see the pain in Richard’s eyes just so he can make a cutting remark. James has had three weeks of puppy dog eyes and moping about and just the mere fact that Richard is suddenly showing interest in what actually happened is a sign that he’s moving on. James will not allow his mouth to get in the way of that.

“I had it recovered.”

Richard’s eyes get wide “Has it gone for scrap?”

“Not my car to scrap mate. It’s waiting for you.”

“Can I see it?”

“Do you really want to?”

“No. But I need to.”

James can’t really pretend that he understands fully. He’s always had difficulty with emotional attachments. Fusker was the first thing he ever truly loved. Hammond is the second. But they are alive. They are flesh and blood, living and breathing. He can’t appreciate how people, how Richard, can form an emotional attachment to something made of metal and glass. But Richard loves Oliver and James loves Richard…and suddenly James has the theme from the Lion King dancing through his head, something about the circle of life.

“Get your coat.” He tells Richard.

*

It’s when he starts seeing the signs for Guildford, that Richard realizes where they’re going.

“You took it to work?”

“Yup.”

“Oh.”

And that’s the end of that particular conversation. But something strange is happening.

For one thing James is smiling. Richard raises his eyebrows but says nothing.

And as they pull up and then pass through the Top Gear gates James says “Close your eyes.” And Richard is too emotional, too nervous and trepidatious to say no.

*

James’s hands are warm on Richard’s face as they cover his eyes. And then the warmth is gone and Richard opens his eyes.

Oliver is in the middle of the hanger. Or at least what remains of him. It’s just as he feared and somehow seeing it is even worse. The front end is gone, the chassis destroyed, the…and then he stops and takes in what his peripheral vision has been showing him.

“There are two other Kadetts here.”

James nods, “Yup. Even if we have to turn it into a ringer I’m going to bring this stupid little car back for you.”

Hot tears are pricking at the back of Richard’s eyes. “Oliver is dead. His essence is gone.”

And he expects James to hug him and agree. But he doesn’t. Instead James calls him a “stupid bugger” and walks over to Oliver.

And he leans in through the broken side window and…

PARP! PARP PARP!

And Richard’s jaw hits the floor.

Oliver’s farty little horn, that sickly little cough of his, is fully intact.

“But, how? I?”

James grins like a Cheshire cat, “I’d say critical but stable wouldn’t you? Well you would know better than me. But I’d say this little car is about as tough as you Hammond. And this is Top Gear remember, we maybe crap, but we can rebuild. And…oh for God’s sake man stop crying.”

THE END.


End file.
